


Back and Forth with Light

by CloudAtlas



Series: A Safety In The End [8]
Category: Marvel (Comics), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Clubbing, Drunkenness, Friendship, Halloween, Halloween Costumes, Hand Jobs, Kink Negotiation, Love Confessions, Misunderstandings, Multi, Polyamory, Semi-Public Sex, Sex Club
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-09
Updated: 2020-05-09
Packaged: 2021-03-01 17:22:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,804
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23720779
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CloudAtlas/pseuds/CloudAtlas
Summary: Halloween happens and Natasha comes to a realisation.
Relationships: Clint Barton/Natasha Romanov, James "Bucky" Barnes/Clint Barton, James "Bucky" Barnes/Clint Barton/Natasha Romanov, James "Bucky" Barnes/Natasha Romanov, Minor or Background Relationship(s), Peggy Carter/Steve Rogers, Wanda Maximoff/Vision
Series: A Safety In The End [8]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/672662
Comments: 81
Kudos: 248





	Back and Forth with Light

**Author's Note:**

> Yes yes, this is still a thing.
> 
> Thank you to **inkvoices** , as usual, for the phenomenal beta work. Title from [Hey, Ma by Bon Iver](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HDAKS18Gv1U). ABSOLUTELY PHENOMENAL ART BY QUICKSILLVER, which I got as part of Charity Hawktion 2019. Shower them with love. <3 [Rebloggable here](https://cloud--atlas.tumblr.com/post/189046656489/please-can-everyone-bask-in-the-absolute-glory) (with bonus red version). Follow them on tumblr [here](https://quicksillver.tumblr.com/).
> 
>   
> 

Their Uber driver gives them a strange look when he pulls up outside Natasha's place in Hell’s Kitchen. Natasha doesn’t blame him really; for all that it’s Halloween, the five of them have definitely put way more effort in than most of the people currently swaying drunkenly down the road. His eyes roam over Steve as Khal Drogo and Peggy as Daenerys – complete with wigs, fake blood, and a faker horse’s heart – gaze catching briefly on Peggy’s magnificent cleavage. (Again, Natasha can’t blame him).

“Well, at least I know who you two are supposed to be,” he says, “but what’s this?” He flaps his hand in James and Clint’s general direction, having clearly missed Natasha where she’s stood in Steve’s shadow.

“Demon,” James says, pointing to himself, resplendent in combat boots, leather trousers, and eyeliner.

“Fallen angel,” he continues, pointing at Clint, who waves. Clint’s outfit is actually the most impressive out of everyone’s, though it doesn’t seem like it at first glance. He’s in white trousers and shirtless and looks a little underwhelming until you see what Steve’s done to his back; a pretty impressive prosthetic that makes it look as though angel-Clint has had his wings ripped off. There’s a lot of fake blood.

“And the Queen of Hell,” James finishes, pointing at her.

The Uber driver’s eyes widen when they land on her and Natasha can’t help but preen. Halloween is one of those days where Natasha can dress up with the _intention_ of being seen and appreciated. She’s in a Playboy-esque leather corset, lace cat suit, and killer heels and looks fucking _spectacular_ , even if she does say so herself. Only Clint had been disappointed in her outfit, but that’s because Clint knows what _else_ she has at home in terms of fetish wear. If he’s good, she might treat him.

“Well, that’s…” The Uber driver trails off, shakes his head, and then gestures at his car. “Just don’t get fake blood on the seats.”

The first person she sees as they enter Valhalla is Sif, dressed as Wonder Woman.

Sif is Natasha's Domme, for the approximately three times a year Natasha wants a Domme. Sif is athletic and beautiful and has a mean swing, and she looks resplendent as Diana of Themyscira. God, she could give James a run for his money in the ‘beautiful thighs’ department.

“Looking good,” Sif whisper-yells into Natasha's ear over the sound of heavy bass.

“Right back at you,” Natasha replies, instead of _you picked that outfit because of the whip, right?_ because she knows Sif would remember that comment and punish her for it whenever she sees her next. “Catch you later?”

Sif grins at her before sending a polite nod in Clint’s direction and disappearing into the throng of the club.

Clint frowns at her back.

Sif is probably the only woman Clint is uncomfortable around, a fact that Natasha's ashamed to admit is entirely her fault. About two years back she wasn’t quite as careful as she should have been in hiding from Clint the bruises Sif had given her. And while Clint has always known that everything that ever happens between herself and Sif is one hundred percent consensual, his reaction to bruises is so deeply ingrained that he can’t help thinking, somewhere deep down, that Sif is doing something wrong. Natasha knew this even then, but she’d been happy and relaxed and comfortable and she’d just… forgotten. Even now she feels a twinge of guilt about it.

_Usual table?_ Natasha signs at Clint to distract him from Sif.

He nods and Natasha leads everyone towards a table to the right of the bar which, due to some weirdness of acoustics and architecture, is actually pretty quiet. Whenever Clint knows in advance that he’s coming to Valhalla, he reserves this table. It means there’s at least one area of the club he can wear his hearing aids in without the cacophony of noise becoming too much, which is good because Clint sure does like talking to people.

“Drinks?” Steve asks.

“Yes please,” come the various replies and Steve eels his way to the bar with everyone’s drinks orders and instructions to set up Clint’s customary tab.

“This is wild,” Peggy says, directly into her ear, and Natasha has to fight the shiver that wants to break free as Peggy’s lips accidentally graze her earlobe. Instead she turns to take in the riot of colour and sound that is Valhalla on Halloween.

It’s like Mardi Gras was transplanted to fall. There are feathers and fur and leather and lace in every colour imaginable. On the small stage in the corner someone looks like they’re getting ready to do some sort of show, though Natasha knows that the Halloween Drag Night will be on Saturday rather than today. Natasha can see Loki, from the dungeon downstairs, in a fitted black suit sitting off to one side and Kai and their friends practically drowning in sequins and glitter grinding against each other on the dancefloor. There’s so much going on that Natasha's not sure what to watch, but eventually her gaze is caught by the frankly hilarious sight of Steve coming back with their drinks and trying really hard to escape the attention of a twink in a leather harness who’s practically plastered against his side.

Natasha nudges James, who’s lounging on the seat next to her, and nods in Steve’s direction.

James cracks up laughing.

“Dude,” he says, grinning, as soon as Steve’s within earshot, “he’s like, half your size. He’s not that scary.”

Steve passes around the drinks – and how he carried five all on his own, Natasha has no idea – before grimacing and rubbing at his arm. “I think he was covered in oil.”

James laughs again. Clint nabs his usual IPA, saluting Steve with the bottle. “You should go for it.”

“Unfortunately,” Steve replies, completely straight faced, “I am not into dick.”

Natasha snorts in amusement and even James is biting his lip, trying not to laugh, but Steve still flushes as though unsure if the comment is still _too soon_ and carefully avoids James’ eye.

“All the more for me then,” Clint says with a shrug and a smirk, switching his gaze from Steve to the mass of bodies on the dancefloor.

In the brief silence that follows, Peggy takes the daintiest sip of her violently pink cocktail. “Plus,” she adds, grinning like a shark, “I don’t share.”

Clint laughs in response, bright and carefree, and they spend a quiet five minutes drinking and watching the bodies on the dancefloor, until Clint puts down his now empty beer bottle and announces rather grandly that he’s going to dance and would Peggy like to accompany him? He holds out his hand to her like he’s asking her to join some old Regency dance, rather than grinding up against strangers in leather and nipple tassels, and Peggy accepts with similar dignity. The last thing Natasha sees of Clint is him removing his hearing aids and tucking them into his pocket before dragging Peggy into the throng.

“C’mon,” Natasha says, downing the remainder of her drink, “let’s go dance.”

Because Clint definitely has the right idea. Shame he stole Peggy though.

“Is it safe to leave the table?” Steve asks, with a frown.

James snorts. “As in, what, are you going to get eaten?”

Steve sends him a flat look. “No, you jerk. As in, if there’s no one here, will someone take it?”

Natasha waves the ‘Reserved’ sign at him and Steve looks vaguely embarrassed to have missed it.

“You probably will get eaten though,” Natasha leans over to say. She squeezes his bicep and leers at him. “So maybe you should dance with me first.”

The expression on Steve’s face makes it very clear that, while he knows she’s being deliberately vulgar, he’s considering taking her up on her offer regardless, because he’s out of his element and needs a moment to get comfortable.

“C’mon, Steve,” she purrs ridiculously, “I’ll keep those scary twinks away from you.”

James barks out a laugh.

“Yeah, yeah, yuk it up,” Steve grumbles good-naturedly. “I get it. I’m the token out-of-their-depth straight dude.” He stands and holds a hand out to Natasha. “C’mon then. Show me what I’ve been missing.”

Natasha grins and takes Steve’s hand, making sure to grab James’ too so Steve drags them both into the strobe lights and bodies in perpetual motion.

Natasha feels almost euphoric; she’s been dancing for a while now, coloured lights bleeding over her closed eyelids, cycling through songs and partners and drinks at will. There was this one dude who got a little too handsy, but otherwise it’s been _amazing_. Christ, she’s missed just dancing; missed the push and pull of it. Her life has been so busy recently that when she’d had the chance to go to Valhalla it was for the express the purpose of a hook-up to blow off steam, so it’s been _months_ since she’s been able to just feel the music pulse through her, feel all these bodies moving as one.

This was such a good idea.

She dances pressed close to Clint, but when he gets pulled away by someone he knows she grabs Peggy, then a random woman she half recognises. It takes a while for her to notice that Wanda has arrived, her brother in tow in place of Viz. They’re twins apparently, but he has badly bleached hair and isn’t half as cute as Wanda, in her opinion. And while Natasha understands _why_ Viz didn’t come, she’s sad all the same. She’d liked Viz, the one time they’d met, and he and Wanda were cute together.

Peggy passes her another drink and she nods in thanks before flicking her gaze back to Wanda.

She’s dressed as some anime character – Sailor Moon perhaps? Natasha's not sure – and her skirt is really short. Wanda has _great_ legs. Ugh. It’s so unfair that Natasha's surrounded by all these ridiculously attractive women she can’t make out with. Maybe she’ll grab her for a dance later at least. Platonic grinding is totally a thing, right? It worked with Peggy and that was great. Her gaze catches on Sif again, leaning over the bar to speak to Val and Hilda, and suddenly she remembers the other plan she had for tonight.

Natasha looks down at her glass. Is she sober enough for this? A quick run through of how she’s feeling brings back a yes, so she deposits her glass on the nearest table and starts scanning the dancefloor for James.

She finds him in the thick of the dancing, hands held high and a woman all but plastered to his front. The lighting makes his hair glow blue and green and red, makes the angles of his face sharper, makes him look ethereal and free.

Natasha hopes Clint has seen James like this; he’s _beautiful_ like this.

“Hey.” She grabs James’ arm as soon as she’s close enough, pulling him off to one side and down far enough for her to reach his ear. “Come with me.”

She laces their fingers together and begins pulling him through the crowd, looking back only once to catch the disappointed face of the woman James had been dancing with.

“Where are we going?” James yells over the bass.

Natasha ignores him, instead managing to catch Clint’s eye over the heads of the closest dancers and clumsily signing _downstairs_ to him with her right hand. He frowns and then, when understanding dawns, nods and smirks.

“No, really,” James says, closer to normal volume now that they’ve made it to the entryway of the club.

“You’ll see.” She pulls him out onto the street, casually flicks the bird to a guy who decides wolf-whistling is a good way to go, and heads around the corner and towards a non-descript door with a weird pictogram on it that Natasha only knows is the Norse rune for ‘nine’ because Sif told her. “Through here.”

Stairs lead downwards almost as soon as they step through the door, well-lit and so vastly different from the club they’ve just left that Natasha isn’t surprised when James looks confused. At the bottom a guy who’s obviously security is seated next to what looks a lot like a reception desk for a fancy hotel. Natasha watches as James’ expression goes through confusion and suspicion into dawning understanding and she smiles to herself, pleased he’s worked it out. She makes a point of not dating stupid men.

“Hello again, Ms Romanov.” It’s Angela behind the desk today and she gives Natasha a toothy grin. “And guest,” Angela tacks on when she sees James. “Welcome to the Nine Realms. Will you be participating tonight?”

“Natasha,” James says slowly, in an unsubtle aside, “is this a _sex club_?”

Natasha ignores James, because he’ll find out for himself soon enough. “Not tonight, Angela. Observing only.”

Angela nods and hands over what passes for wristbands in the Nine Realms – soft woven bands of rainbow silk – before gesturing to James. “ID?”

James produces his driver’s licence from the pocket of his very tight leather trousers, handing it over like he expects Angela to bite him. It’s cute.

“Oh hey, my mom’s from Shelbyville,” Angela says, entering James’ information into the computer. There’s no internet here – it’s a completely closed network – so Natasha's never worried about security. “You know the auto shop on Bud Street?”

“Yes?”

James looks very out of his depth. Perhaps Natasha should have prepared him for this? Apart from he would have probably chickened out if she had. Plus, no sex or nudity is allowed in the main room so if he’s really not comfortable they can leave without seeing much of anything.

“That’s my gramps’ place. I’d spend my summers learning how to change the oil in old Mustangs.” She holds his ID out to him. “Anyway, all set. You want to run through the rules, Ms Romanov, or shall I?”

Natasha takes James’ hand again. “I’ll do it,” she says, tugging James over to a little alcove housing a plush velvet bench.

“Killer outfit, by the way.”

Natasha smiles at Angela, adding a bit of a sway to her hips. “Thanks.”

“You could have warned me you were planning on taking me to a _sex club_ ,” James hisses as they sit.

“I did.”

“Not _today_.”

She pats his hand. “We can leave if you want, but I think this is a good idea.” James looks like he wants to argue, but he can’t hide the dull flush that’s working its way up his neck. “Do you want to leave?”

James glares at her – wet-kitten-like – and gives a jerky shake of his head. Natasha squeezes his hand in return.

“Okay, ground rules. You don’t do _anything_ without asking those involved first. You don’t watch, you don’t touch. Not without asking. You don’t like what you see, you leave. No one wants your opinions here. There’s a big D/s scene here too, so there’s also the rule that you don’t talk to or approach anyone’s sub without asking their Dominant first and, if they say no, you don’t try your luck.”

Eagle-eyed, she notices the sharpening of James’ gaze at that.

“There are nine rooms” – a fact that gets a little snort from James, as it should – “as well as the rooms for those people who work out of this club.” Primarily the professional Dominants Sif, Hela, Loki and Heimdall, though there are a couple of others who worked out of this club as well, all of whom are equally dedicated to the Norse theme. “We’ll only be going into the first two rooms tonight, though. You don’t have clearance for any of the others.”

She points at his wristband and she can see that for the first time he notices that his differs from hers. While they’re both rainbow coloured, his has a thick white band of silk mixed in. There’s a blacklight over the door to the other rooms, so security can see the white silk clear as day.

“James,” she continues after a beat, “I vouched for you with the owners to come in and look around. I’m bringing you here because I think it might help you work a couple of things out and,” she says, meeting his eyes, “because I think it’ll be good for you to know that there are people here you can talk to who aren’t me or Clint. Well,” she amends, “me, mostly. This isn’t really Clint’s scene. But it _is_ mine. I like this place; I like the people here and I like what it offers me. It’s okay if it ends up not being your thing but… I’m trusting you with this.”

“Okay,” he says, whisper soft, his fingers a gentle brush against the back of her hand. He’s flushed, eyes bright, and he looks good enough to eat. “What’s – ” He cuts himself off, swallows, starts again. “What’s in the other rooms?”

“Breeding benches,” she says, bluntly. “Wet rooms. Bondage equipment.” She shrugs. “They’re for people who want to bleed and cry and bruise.”

James frowns slightly, his expression clearly saying he’s only staying quiet because Natasha has specifically told him to keep negative opinions to himself. She nods at his silence, though she’s not surprised by his distaste. She didn’t really think any of that stuff was for him. Somehow he’s too… soft. James doesn’t want to bleed, he wants to be looked after and told he’s good.

“Still want to go in?”

“I – yeah. Yes.”

The Nine Realms is pretty quiet tonight, a combination of it being a Thursday and Halloween. Music is playing, but there are only a handful of people dancing and only three couples sat on the benches running along the wall. Natasha's not sure that the next room will be busier, but she’s planning to work James up to that one, despite the fact that they have a bit of a deadline. Steve and Peggy are intending to leave around two a.m. because Steve still has to go to work tomorrow and James should get a chance to hang out with them more before they go, but that still gives them about another hour before they have to head back up.

“What am I supposed to do?” James asks as he follows her to the bench and sits down.

“Dance, if you want to,” she replies. “Watch if you don’t.”

James looks at the handful of people on the dancefloor, his misgivings clear in his expression. For all that there’s a ban on sex and nudity in this room, people are far freer with their hands than in Valhalla. Natasha's fairly sure that the tall black guy actually has his hands down the back of his partner’s trousers – like, _properly_ down the back. Fingering may, in fact, be occurring there.

It’s hot.

James looks unsure though. Like he desperately wishes he didn’t want to watch or he’s unsure if he’s allowed, and Natasha finds he’s far more interesting to watch than the guys groping each other on the dancefloor. James Barnes has, generally speaking, buckets of self-confidence but it’s all washed away now, and the uncertainty and desire warring across his face makes Natasha want to hug him, just a little. A larger part of her is rather enjoying watching him squirm though.

She places a hand high on his thigh, her fingers just grazing his inseam. He startles slightly, but recovers quickly.

They sit like that for a while, Natasha idly stroking James’ thigh while he gazes around the room like a kid window shopping for _really expensive_ chocolate.

Then he catches sight of something over her shoulder and an intense hunger sweeps over his features, tension coiled in every muscle in a way that reminds her of the first time the three of them slept together. She turns to look.

It’s one of the couples. The guy’s unremarkable, well-fitted trousers and neatly ironed shirt, but at his feet sits a woman in what looks like a long sleeved bodysuit, stockings, and suspenders. She’s leaning against his leg, clearly utterly relaxed and happy, as he runs his hand through her hair over and over again. The ease with which Natasha can swap out the woman for James and the man for Clint, or herself, leaves her almost lightheaded. God, she wants that.

“Want to go find something else you might like?” she says, tilting her head towards the connecting door leading to the other room. She tries her best to sound neutral, not pushing James in any way, but she can’t quite hide the desire in her voice. It comes out low, a little rough. James watches her mouth.

He nods, slightly delayed, before freezing, his eyes flicking down to his lap and away almost too quickly for Natasha to catch it. His flush, which had faded a little, comes back with a vengeance, and she can’t help herself. She leans over and plants a quick kiss on his nose. He’s so fucking cute.

“This is about the last place where that would matter, kitten,” she says with a smile, getting to her feet and holding out her hand.

“Stop calling me that,” James says half-heartedly.

“Be less cute then.”

The second room is larger and darker, with booths along one side with curtains for privacy. There are more people here, in various stages of undress and in the midst of various sex acts. A woman Natasha is sure she recognises is sucking the dick of a guy sat in the kind of arrogant sprawl that makes Natasha automatically wary. Another woman is getting fucked in one of the booths by two guys, curtains open to invite onlookers. It’s not _tame_ , not really, but there are no toys in this room, so it definitely could be wilder.

James is stuck on the woman getting fucked, clearly remembering every time Natasha has ever said double penetration something she’d like to try with him and Clint. He looks almost distressed by how much he’s into it. And oh boy, is he into it.

However, she can also see that James is unlikely to come with her to the Nine Realms again unless she asks him to. He’s clearly turned on by what he sees, he’s clearly _interested_ , but he’s equally clearly uncomfortable with the fact that these are _strangers_ , something that has never really bothered Natasha.

“You okay?” she asks, touching his wrist gently.

James jerks, like he’d forgotten she was there for a moment, before turning wide eyes on her.

“Oh my god,” he says faintly. He licks his lips, his gaze darting from her face and away again, constantly distracted by something new, before finally landing on the woman sucking cock.

The woman – Laura, Natasha suddenly remembers; Laura Kelly? Kinney? – pulls off the dude’s dick, and James stares and stares and stares like he’s starving, swallowing reflexively and clenching and unclenching his hands. They guy’s dick looks big and thick and like nothing Natasha wants near her mouth – her gag reflex is terrible and she’s never much enjoyed sucking cock anyway – but James looks like he’d be smashing his face into that dude’s lap if he could only ignore the fact that _everyone would see_.

“You like that, huh?” Natasha's voice is low, intimate, and aimed directly into James’ ear. She bites his earlobe before he can reply and instead of words a small, shivery moan makes its way out of his mouth. “Yeah, you do,” she continues. “You want to go over there, yeah? Sink to your knees. Stuff your mouth full of cock.” James moans louder now. “You could you know. Bet you he wouldn’t mind.”

The noise that makes it out of James’ mouth this time is still a moan, but there’s an edge to it, an edge that says _no, not that_.

“Or Clint, in his wingback.” Gently, she pushes James until the backs of his legs hit one of the benches and he sits down hard, like his strings have been cut. She kneels up next to him, careful not to block his view, though she’s not really sure he’s paying attention to whatever’s going on anymore. “Legs splayed, jeans unzipped. Not even bothered to get undressed. And you – _you_ – all begging and needy at his feet.” James is already a mess, panting and glassy eyed, and there isn’t even a hand on his dick yet.

“Hand in your hair,” she whispers into his ear, before biting again. “ _Hard_.” James lets out the most gorgeous, broken moan and, as a reward, she pushes herself against his side and lays a hand against the impressive bulge in his pants. These leather pants are a gift to the world, honestly.

“Just fucking your face.” She squeezes, once, and James arches with a cry, all long lines. “Making you take it.”

God, Natasha regrets everything about her outfit right now. She can’t put a hand on herself without completely undressing. The material of her corset is too thick for her to even pinch her nipples properly. She tries anyway, hissing through her teeth, but it’s unbelievably unsatisfactory.

She squeezes James’ dick again instead.

“Natasha,” James pants. “I don’t – ”

“Don’t what?” Natasha asks, low and heated, but paying full attention.

“Please,” James gets out, “not – not here.”

There’s an empty booth on the other side of the room, one with a curtain.

“Okay,” she says, pulling away from James completely and causing him to whine. “Up. C’mon.”

James doesn’t move.

“ _James_ ,” she says, low and forceful and not to be ignored. Something ripples through James’ entire body, like he’s touched a livewire, and he staggers to his feet, swaying slightly. His eyes are bright and hazy when they meet her own, submissiveness in every angle of his body. God, James can fall so fast sometimes. It’s intoxicating. Natasha wishes Clint were here to see it.

Natasha brushes her thumb lightly across his bottom lip, just to watch his eyelashes flutter, before trailing her hand down his arm and lacing their fingers together to draw him towards the booth. He follows so sweetly – tripping along in her wake, soft and eager and so turned on – so it comes as a surprise when he just _stops_ as though he’s hit a wall, all movement arrested.

She turns at James’ punched-out, shuddery gasp.

The booth next to the one she’s marked as theirs has its curtains open, inviting onlookers. Someone has moved a low bench into the space where a table would sit if this were any other type of club and a man is lying on it, eyes glassy and far away, little punched out noises being fucked out of him by his companion. His companion, who has a hand wrapped around his neck.

That, Natasha thinks distantly, is unlikely to be something James can convince Clint to try. Unfortunately.

“Come on, kitten.” Natasha steers James into their booth, closing the curtains before pushing James to sit and straddling his lap.

“Open your mouth,” she says, inches from his lips and, when he does – mindlessly, beautifully – she kisses him hard enough to bruise.

They’re a mess really. For some reason, and she’s not sure why, she hadn’t thought this was how this visit would go. She’d imagined it clinical; James asking questions and her answering. She imagined herself _in control_. And she _is_ , of James at least, but she also wants to rub up against him like a cat in heat. She wants to drink him down, make him beg, have him sweaty and needy with all those new desires swimming through his veins like a drug. The viciousness of it surprises her.

God, she was so dumb.

Instead she’s here, grinding on his lap; raking nails down his chest, mindful of Steve’s carefully applied prosthetic makeup, tugging on his hair, swallowing down his gasps and moans. It’s filthy and wonderful – though she’s always half expecting another pair of hands to appear – and, when he’s close, _so close_ , she swings off, unzipping his pants in one swift move and tugging almost viciously on his dick.

He’s teetering on the brink, so close he’s almost inarticulate. His cracked pleas are the sweetest thing she’s ever heard, and she slows, almost imperceptibly, just to drag more out; pressing herself against his side, grazing his neck with her teeth.

“Tasha – ” James manages, a soft whine and, in response, Natasha curls her free hand around his neck and _squeezes_.

James comes like its being punched out of him.

It takes a little while for James to come back to himself, and Natasha drinks in every fluttering eyelash and quiet moan like she’s starving for it. She forgets sometimes just how much she likes someone submitting to her. She doesn’t _need_ it, not like some people do, but it’s _so satisfying_ to watch another person unravel completely under her touch. And James does it _so beautifully_.

“You with me, kitten?”

She sounds like a pack-a-day smoker, her voice husky and lower than usual, and James twitches at the sound before cracking an eye to glare at her. Yeah, he’s back. Ish.

“Stop calling me kitten.”

Natasha grins and gently bites at his chin. “You don’t want me to though.”

James glares harder but doesn’t actually contradict her, which just makes her grin widen. Then she runs a hand through his sweaty hair and says, “We probably should have talked about this first,” hitting the exact tone that makes it clear that this is a debrief and James should chime in with his opinions.

James doesn’t reply though, just stares glassily at the ceiling.

“James,” Natasha admonishes gently.

He rolls his neck and faces her, still sprawled against the bench. “Didn’t like that Clint wasn’t here,” he says. A larger-than-usual moan filters its way through the thick curtain covering the entrance to the booth. “Could have done without the setting,” he continues, grimacing slightly and looking down. He smirks then. “Not a fan of the fact that my dick’s now covered in fake blood.”

Natasha looks down and, yeah, that’s a lot of fake blood that’s come off her hand. She laughs and reaches for the wet wipes that are conveniently stashed on the shelf along the wall with the other paraphernalia – condoms, lube, dental dams, nitrile gloves and the like – wiping James down and tucking him back into his pants before cleaning her hands.

“Looks like I killed you,” she says, with a laugh, looking at the crumpled and bloody wet wipes.

“Feels a little like you killed me,” James replies, not having moved an inch.

She studies his profile a moment. “And what about this?” she asks, fitting her hand gently to his neck.

She watches as his pupils dilate again, the dull flush that had only just faded creeping back up his cheeks.

“Yeah,” he croaks, meeting her eyes. “Yeah, I liked that.”

She leans forward and kisses his neck at the exact point her thumb had rested. “Probably won’t be able to get Clint to do that though.”

“No,” he concedes quietly. He lifts a hand to her neck. “Might get him here though,” he says quietly, pressing his thumb against the point where her collarbones meet. “Yeah?”

Natasha's breath hitches and she raises her hand to mirror his, pressing her thumb into the same divot and feeling him swallow. “Yeah,” she says, “maybe.”

Absentmindedly, she sweeps her thumb over his collarbones, back and forth, back and forth, her gaze caught in his. She can practically feel her heartbeat between her legs and she can see James’ gaze falling out of focus again in increments. It wouldn’t take much for them to start up again, not really, but her clothing hasn’t magically changed since she came into this booth, so it’s not like any of her problems have gone away; she’d still have to undress completely to get any proper relief. Plus, at this rate all that would happen is that James would sink under again and become a boneless mess. It’s not like he’s going to be able to get it up again soon. Still, it’s _nice_.

Would be nicer with Clint though.

“Hey.” Her voice is gentle, whisper-soft. “Hey, come back James.” He blinks at her, molasses slow, and she kisses him softly on his plush mouth. “Shall we go?”

“Yeah,” James breathes out, but he doesn’t move. Natasha has to nudge him to sit up, and then to stand. He’s so soft and pliant, though she can see him coming to, and she knows he needs water, maybe something to eat, before they actually leave. She presses a kiss to his mouth, biting gently at his bottom lip before taking him by the hand and leading him out of the booth.

Their exit takes more time than she was expecting. Clearly, now that James is sated somewhat and he knows what to expect, he’s a little more curious about everything that’s going on around him. She allows him to set the pace, stopping when he stops and answering every question he asks to the best of her ability. No, she has not, personally, taken part in an orgy, though she’s fairly sure Clint has, because he’s tried everything at least once. Yes, she owns harnesses like that. Sure, she’s happy to use them on him. Yes, she’d still love for him and Clint to DP her. No, she probably won’t be sucking his cock any time soon, that’s what Clint’s for. And, most importantly, yes, you’d have to ask, but she’s one hundred percent sure Clint would be thrilled if James wanted to fuck him for a change. That’s part of what being a switch _is_.

Occasionally James stutters to a stop and Natasha gets the immense pleasure of going up on tiptoes to whisper in his ear, “Seen something you like?” Sometimes he nods, sometimes he doesn’t respond at all and, once, he turns to her and says, low and desperate, “I want you to ride me while Clint sits on my face,” and Natasha actually has to grind against his thigh, purely for the friction.

They make it out of the Nine Realms eventually though, and not too much later than Natasha was planning despite taking the time to get James something to drink and eat.

“Hey.” She stops James with a hand on his arm before they enter Valhalla again. “Go find Clint.”

James looks torn. “But – ”

“James,” she says gently, this time giving him a little push away from her, “it’s okay. Go find Clint.”

If there’s one thing she knows – absolutely _knows_ – about James Barnes, it’s that he wants them both, _equally_. Initially she’d thought his request to only have sex with both of them together was a way of finding his feet, and it was, to an extent. But more than that, it had been an attempt to give them equal amounts of his attention and, while they do now pair off, he almost always seeks out the other as soon as he can afterwards. On a couple of occasions she’s had James drape himself over her on the couch without having showered after sleeping with Clint. And she’s often been gently coerced into going to Slings & Arrows after sleeping with James despite the fact that she’d much rather stay in bed. It could so easily be off putting, but he’s so gentle and sweet about it that she’s never found herself minding. And it’s not like she ever needs an excuse to visit Clint.

James searches her expression, as if he’s trying to check her sincerity, but eventually he nods and gives her a toe-curling kiss before disappearing into the noise and bodies.

“Hey, gorgeous,” a guy calls drunkenly, “I could do you better than a dude who cuts and runs.”

“No, you couldn’t,” Natasha calls in return, not even trying to hide her immensely pleased smile.

James clearly took her words to heart, because she can’t even see him once she gets inside. She scans the room, looking out for Sif but instead bumping into Wanda. They sit together for a while at their table, with Steve and Peggy dropping in periodically to catch their breath or drop off empty glasses. Wanda’s almost glowing, she’s so happy, clearly energised by being surrounded by so many people. “I love Viz, so much,” she explains, “but I miss _touching_ ,” and that’s too tempting a statement, so Natasha has to ask, do they…? Well, not as such, comes the answer. Wanda primarily uses toys. Lots of toys.

Natasha jokingly offers Clint as an alternative and almost snorts alcohol through her nose at Wanda’s shocked expression.

They’re eventually interrupted by Pietro, who decides they’ve been sitting too long and need to dance more, so Natasha loses herself to the music for a while, all thoughts of finding Sif scattered by alcohol and too-heavy bass. At least until she sees her leaning into her husband Loki by the bar.

“Be back in a moment,” she yells into the closest ear – Peggy’s as it turns out – before worming her way through the sea of bodies.

“Hey.” She curls her hand around Sif’s Wonder Woman vambrace. “Can I talk to you a moment?”

Sif nods, bussing Loki on the cheek before steering Natasha into a storage room by the bar with such casual dominance Natasha swears she feels her nipples tighten. Fuck. Dommes.

“That was unnecessary,” she comments, though she can’t find it in her to put any energy into her words. What did she expect, really?

“We could keep yelling at each other over Rhianna beats if you want,” Sif shoots back, mild as anything.

Natasha rolls her eyes.

“Less of the sass, please.” Sif’s smirk is magnificent. “Like Domme Natasha hasn’t made an appearance today, I saw you going downstairs earlier. Finally dumped Barton?”

Sif knows she hasn’t. Natasha knows she knows. Sif saw her come in with Clint, for Christ’s sake. She’s just fishing, like usual.

“No,” she says with a shake of her head, rolling her eyes. “Picked up another one, haven’t I?” Sif raises an eyebrow, but doesn’t comment further. “It’s why I wanted to speak to you, actually.”

Sif clearly picks up on Natasha's subtext here, because there’s an almost imperceptible shift in her stance, her gaze sharpening.

“He’s… interested.” Natasha waves a hand to encompass the Nine Realms and everything it entails. “But Clint’s…” There’s a fine line here; Natasha wants Sif to have the basics so she knows the lay of the land, but she doesn’t want either Clint or James to ever think she’s been talking about them behind their backs.

Sif nods in understanding.

And this is why Natasha wanted to speak to her; Sif _understands_. They’ve known each other for over four years now. She knows enough about Natasha, and by extension about Clint, to know what Natasha is getting at here.

“You want to give him somewhere to go where he can ask, if he wants?”

“Yeah.”

Sif nods. “And it’s the three of you?”

“Not all the time, but yeah.”

“Exclusive?” Sif asks, and Natasha can’t help but snort. Clint doesn’t work in the same ZIP-code as exclusivity.

“Okay.” Sif smiles like she knows that was a dumb question. “And Barton’s not…?”

“It’s not – there’s… trauma,” Natasha supplies, suddenly uncomfortable. She’s obliquely mentioned to Clint that she was going to speak to Sif, but she hadn’t really thought through what that would entail. Of course it would be something like _this_. Sif needs to know at least something if she’s to help James in any meaningful way.

Through the door Natasha hears Ariana Grande slide into Massive Attack, of all fucking things. Sif gives her a long, searching look.

“This isn’t ideal, Natasha,” she says eventually. It’s politer than what her expression is saying, which is _what the fuck are you thinking?_

Natasha frowns and opens her mouth to reply before abruptly realising what this sounds like and shutting it again with a click. Jesus. Those drinks with Wanda have had more of an effect than she realised. Normally she’s better making it _not_ sound like asking a friend to help her _coerce her boyfriend into abusive situations._ Fuck’s sake, Natasha.

“ _No_ ,” she blurts out. “Wait, that’s not – ” She takes a deep breath. “Okay, I’m not explaining this correctly. I want to provide James with someone to talk to about this that isn’t either of the people he’s in a relationship with. Who can help him approach this and answer any questions he might have. I want him to have options, if he wants them. That’s it.”

“Right,” Sif says. “And you want me to…?”

Natasha shrugs. “Be that person, I guess. If he asks.”

Sif stares at her some more, her shoulders relaxing imperceptibly, and Natasha finds herself trying to avoid her gaze. And then, slowly, Sif smiles.

“This is your way of telling me you trust me, isn’t it?”

“I trust you,” Natasha says defensively.

“With yourself, sure; your desires and your body. Your feelings? People you care about?” Sif shrugs. “That’s different.”

Natasha doesn’t have a reply for that, because she has a sneaking suspicion that Sif is right and Natasha always hates it when Sif breaks out her psychology degree.

Thankfully, Sif changes the subject before Natasha's forced to reply.

“What’s your boy’s name?”

“James.”

“And is he the one with the lovely leather pants, or Khal Drogo?”

It takes Natasha a split second to connect Steve with Khal Drogo. Christ, she’s definitely drunker than she thought. “Leather pants.”

Sif nods and then, completely unexpectedly, reels Natasha into her arms for a hug.

“Thank you,” she says into Natasha's hair. She presses a gentle kiss to Natasha's cheek and Natasha abruptly feels small and delicate. Oh yeah, this is what Sif is good at, this feeling. Natasha knows unequivocally that Clint loves her – she doesn’t doubt that for a second – but because he rarely goes for the possessive angle, he rarely manages to elicit _this_ feeling from her; of _being_ possessed, of feeling _treasured_. It’s not like she misses it necessarily but, Christ, it’s a nice feeling.

“Now,” Sif says, pulling away and holding her at arm’s length to scrutinise her face. “You’re still too sober. I think Jaeger bombs are in order.”

“Sif,” Natasha replies firmly. “No.”

Jaeger bombs are disgusting and Natasha hates them, but Sif just grins at her, utterly undeterred, and drags her back into the club towards the bar.

“Sif, _yes_.”

Unsurprisingly, they lose track of time a little and end up leaving Valhalla when it closes for the night, sometime after three.

James is beyond drunk, giggling and singing off key and leaning heavily on Steve, who’s less drunk and more blindingly happy. They’re being too loud, really, for this time of night, but they’re also absurdly cute, laughing into each other’s shoulders and stumbling over nothing, so people are letting it pass.

At some point since Natasha last saw him, James has even managed to get his hands on some light up devil horns, the glow of which draws the eye from within their nest of dark hair. It’s a little tacky and a lot charming and Natasha grins to herself, burrowing into Clint’s side to try and keep warm as she watches James and Steve sway down the street.

There’s a level of comfort between them that throws into sharp relief just how close they are. Natasha's never had a friendship like theirs and, regardless of how close Clint and Kate are, they’re not _this_ either. The two of them are just so _solid_ , so comfortable. They’ve known each other for so long, and they’ve weathered so much; parental death and war and unrequited love and marriage and distance and PTSD. It’s apparent in how they lean into each other, the way they finish each other’s sentences, the way they descend into a weird secret language that even Peggy finds impenetrable, full of inside jokes and childhood references and quotes from obscure radio commercials found only on weird local New York stations that literally no else has ever listened to.

Natasha almost jealous of them, but she just can’t muster it up. Instead she’s just incredibly grateful to Steve, for being there for James for so long.

“Steve is going to be so pissed when he realises he has to be up for school in four hours’ time.”

Clint barks out a laugh and looks over at Peggy, tucked under his other arm and attempting, much like Natasha, to keep warm. How Clint isn’t shivering his ass off despite wearing literally linen pants, sneakers, and _nothing else_ is a mystery.

“What?”

Peggy shrugs. “Well, he’s a teacher. It’s not like he can just take the day off.”

“Why didn’t he just stay home then?” Natasha asks as Clint continues to laugh. She cannot imagine a worse hell than having to teach teenagers while hungover.

“Because, Natasha,” Peggy says, very seriously, “it’s _Halloween_.”

Natasha's fumbling with the lock to her building when she feels James wrap his arms around her middle, leaning heavily against her back.

“Hey, Natasha,” he says too loudly, drunk enough that volume modulation hasn’t even entered his mind, “can I eat you out?”

Natasha misses the lock completely in delighted shock while Clint and Peggy bark out laughs. Steve lets out a scandalised ‘ _Bucky!’_ , his eyes huge. From the street, a group of drunk women catcall and holler, one yelling, “Yeah, girl! Get it!” and punching the air. Women supporting women. Good to know they have Natasha's back.

“No really!” James continues, not at all perturbed by his audience, the setting, or Steve’s horrified expression. “I got mine and Clint got his. It’s only fair!”

“When did Clint get his?” Natasha asks; part curiosity, part stalling tactic. The door finally opens under her hands and she ushers everyone inside.

James grins, all teeth. “I sucked him off in the restroom.”

“Oh God.”

Steve’s buried his face in his hands, but he’s smiling – that slightly strained I-can’t-believe-I-know-you sort of smile anyone with an embarrassing friend of relative knows almost instinctively. Peggy, Natasha notes, is laughing silently into Steve’s shoulder while Clint looks like all his Christmases have come at once.

“Please?” James wheedles. “I’ll be good.”

Clint pats James on the head, only slightly patronising, and James beams. God, he’s cute.

He’s also really fucking drunk.

“Tell you what,” Natasha says as everyone piles into the elevator, “let’s get Steve and Peggy their stuff and grab them a taxi, and then we’ll see, yeah?”

James pouts but capitulates, and Natasha can’t help but give him a quick kiss, biting gently at his bottom lip while Steve blushes and looks at literally _anything else_.

The original plan had been for Peggy and Steve to meet them at Valhalla but, once it was made clear just how much prosthetic makeup Steve was prepared to do, they’d switched it to everybody getting ready at Natasha's since her place is closest to the club. Unfortunately though Natasha's isn’t big enough to sleep five people afterwards – it’s barely big enough to sleep two, let alone the three she needs to squeeze in – so Steve and Peggy are grabbing an Uber back to Brooklyn from hers. It’s a shame, because James talks constantly about Steve’s proficiency at making breakfast foods, plus Natasha _likes_ Steve and Peggy, but that’s how it has to go.

They pour James onto the couch so he’s horizontal and out of the way, then proceed to track down all errant prosthetic paraphernalia that has scattered itself around Natasha's apartment before Clint and Natasha see Steve and Peggy off into their Uber.

“Let one of us know when you get home,” Natasha tells Steve as she gives him a hug.

“Though maybe not James,” Clint adds. “I’m fairly sure he’s about two seconds from passing out.”

“Fair warning, he’s a grumpy asshole when he’s really hungover,” Steve says. “We will, though. See you soon.”

Peggy gives them both a quick kiss on the cheek before climbing into the car, and Clint and Natasha watch their Uber pull away from the curb and turn the corner in the soft, three a.m. silence. There’s no one else moving on the street. Even the little Chinese bodega on the corner seems deserted, its buzzing neon sign a low hum blending with the quiet noise of traffic on 10th Avenue.

Natasha looks up, almost absently.

“No stars,” Clint says softly.

“You miss them?”

“Sometimes.” He shrugs. “C’mon, let’s get James into bed. I want to get this stuff off my back, it’s started to peel and it itches weirdly.”

James is barely awake when they get back in, floppy and uncooperative. Getting the prosthetic makeup off his chest is easy enough, but navigating his leather trousers is an exercise in frustration, Clint having to basically lift him up entirely while Natasha eases each pant leg down.

Clint squints.

“Do his… do his boxers have toucans on them?”

Natasha examines James’ very stylish, skin tight boxer briefs which do, indeed, have toucans on them. Clearly she was too distracted to notice them earlier.

“It appears so.”

“God.” Clint presses a kiss to the end of James’ nose, causing him to do little more than grumble. “He’s so fucking cute.”

Natasha idly strokes a hand down James’ now-exposed leg, a tacit agreement, before standing again. “Let’s get this one into bed and then I’ll get that shit off your back.”

It’s hardly their usual getting-ready-for-bed routine, but the motions feel weirdly familiar regardless. Clint helps Natasha out of her cat suit and corset, which is honestly a relief. In return, Natasha peels great swathes of prosthetic makeup off Clint’s back and washes as much fake blood off the both of them as she can be bothered to do, before following him into bed. James is curled up exactly where they’d left him, with water and Tylenol and a bucket all within easy reach, and they endeavour to jostle him as little as possible as they settle, Natasha tucking herself into Clint’s arms.

“How did James like Nine Realms?” Clint asks, after a long enough silence that Natasha has started to drift. There’s a hesitancy in is voice, and suddenly Natasha wonders if Clint was apprehensive about it – about her taking James to a club like that. If he had been, he’d hidden it well, but now… Well.

“More than you,” Natasha settles on, “but less than me. But Christ,” she adds, “that boy has an oral fixation a mile fucking wide.”

“Yeah?” Clint asks, interest colouring his tone.

“I know we joke about face-fucking,” – Natasha can feel her eyelids droop, can hear her voice drift – “but I genuinely think you should try it with him.” She yawns. “He’d fucking love it.”

Clint laughs softly and kisses the knob of her spine. “I’ll keep that in mind,” he murmurs against her skin, but the tone of his voice says this is information he’s aware of and has already acted upon. “Go to sleep now, Tasha.”

Natasha makes a small sound of protest. “What about you?” she manages.

It’s not the most specific question, but Clint understands regardless.

“Was good,” he replies, and Natasha can hear the smile in his voice. “Said hey to Kai and their friends, danced with Steve and Peggy, danced with that tall woman who looks like Gwendoline Christie who’s always around, made out with a guy who looked like a Tom of Finland character…”

Natasha makes an approving noise.

“Yeah, it was hot.” Clint kisses the back of her neck. “I’ll tell you about it some other time. Go to sleep now, Tasha.”

This time, she has to concede to Clint’s good advice. Clumsily, she pulls one of his hands up to her mouth and kisses his open palm, a vague brush of lips to skin.

“Love you, Hufflepuff.”

Clint presses his nose into her hair. “Love you too,” he replies, almost too soft to hear and, as she feels him shift to remove his remaining hearing aid, she basks in the feeling those rarely-spoke words elicit. Clint loves her, she thinks as sleep pulls her under. Clint loves her and it feels like home.

Natasha wakes slowly, warm and comfortable, her head only hurting a little. She’s curled against Clint’s back, knee wedged between his thighs and nose pressed against his spine. It’s surprisingly comfortable, though there’s a pretty high chance she’s giving Clint a dead leg – not that he’s even remotely awake enough to complain about it. She breathes in slowly, relishing the warmth and the scent of his skin, before carefully moving until she can lie flat on her back. Morning light sends stripes across her ceiling where the curtains weren’t pulled closed properly and she can hear the ever-present sound of Hell’s Kitchen through the glass: traffic and drunks yelling and the occasional siren. It’s comforting in its familiarity, but more and more she’s finding it’s not _quite_ what she wants anymore.

Natasha had stayed in Hell’s Kitchen after breaking up with Matt because the area was familiar to her and it’s close to Shield HQ. Plus, she lucked out with this little apartment. Managing to find somewhere both affordable and _this_ nice tends to be a pipe-dream, but Sharon knew someone who knew someone who had a place going on short notice because of something Natasha didn’t bother to remember, which not only meant Natasha could move out of Matt’s place _stat_ , but into somewhere that was _much_ nicer than his place had ever been.

Admittedly, Natasha has always liked knickknacks and cubby-holes and Japanese-style space saving measures, none of which meshed well with Matt being blind, so really that wasn’t surprising.

But now? Now this pace feels _too_ small, and Natasha isn’t so stupid that she doesn’t realise why.

Honestly, she’s been hoping for Danny to move to LA or Seattle, or in with his girlfriend, or literally _anywhere_ , so she can make good on her promise to Clint and move into the apartment across from him. Sure, the commute would be a bitch, but they’d be in the same space. She _wants_ that. She’s tired of them living apart.

And then they could work on getting James to move out of whatever weird place in Queens he lives in but never invites them to. According to Steve it’s a shithole, which is ridiculous because James makes more than enough money to be able to afford somewhere nice, even in Queens. Steve also says it’s sentimental though and has something to do with his recovery, which is the main reason neither she or Clint push him to invite them over.

Speaking of James. Natasha pushes herself up until she can see him over Clint’s shoulder, curled up exactly the same position he’d been in when they’d tucked him into bed seven or so hours ago. Hell, if she couldn’t see him breathing she’d be worried he might’ve died. Literally the only thing that has changed is Clint’s arm now curled protectively around his waist.

Natasha smiles to herself and then levers herself out of bed, reasoning that now that she’s awake she may as well get up. She’s sort of terrible at lie-ins anyway.

She heads to the bathroom to piss and brush her teeth – she may not have a real hangover, but her mouth sure does taste awful – catching sight of herself in the mirror in the process. Apparently she’d gone to bed in Clint’s t-shirt and a thong. Of course. She digs out some leggings and more comfortable underwear before heading to the kitchen to start up coffee and toast.

She stares at the photos adorning her cupboards as she waits for the coffee to percolate.

The collage had started with a strip of photobooth photos she and Yelena had got at Coney Island, one of the times Yelena had come down from Cincinnati to visit, and slowly spread until she was able to trace the last four years or so of her entire friendship group. She loves it. It’s sentimental and a little overwhelming, but every photo brings back happy memories. She finds the most recent additions: Pepper, bright eyed and flushed, laughing in a bar, her normally-immaculate chignon slipping out of place; Natasha and her Aunt Vassa, dining together at the Four Seasons for Vassa’s birthday; Clint and James, curled together on Clint’s couch, dead to the world; and James, sex-mussed and smirking from across her hips, in the photo she sent to everyone when she dropped her ‘has another boyfriend’ bombshell. God, he’d looked good.

But her favourite photo isn’t here. It’s from some entirely normal evening at Clint’s place, with Clint, James, and herself selfie-close and grinning. It’s out of focus, only half of Clint’s face even made it into the picture, James’ nose is scrunched up adorably, and she has the dumbest expression on her face. Together they look so happy it bleeds through the glossy print.

She bought a frame for it from a market stall in Greenwich Village. It’s going to live on her bedside table because her stomach does a thrilling twist every time she looks at it.

She takes her coffee and toast into the front room and settles on the couch but, despite the caffeine, she doesn’t work too hard to wake up further. Instead she drifts, staring vaguely out of her window at the trees opposite in a state of barely-awake-ness. It’s honestly nice. She very rarely gets a chance to just _be_ , slowly sifting through everything in her mind so it settles more solidly. It wasn’t the _reason_ she’d taken today off (Halloween being a Thursday was, let’s be honest, reason enough on its own) but it’s a nice side-effect.

She’s not sure how long she sits there, but by the time she hears the shower start up in the en suite the remains of her coffee have gone cold. She only really stirs herself when Clint shuffles into the room, hair wet and expression uncharacteristically grumpy.

“You okay?” she asks after doing her usual check for his hearing aids.

Clint grunts and, in a very James-like move, lies down directly across her lap. Unfortunately, her couch is considerably shorter than his, so his legs are crunched up in a way that has to be uncomfortable. She doesn’t say anything though, just sinks her hand into his damp hair.

“What’s wrong?” Her voice barely makes it above a whisper.

Clint sometimes has bad dreams. She’s not sure what they’re about, though she can take a pretty educated guess, but they always linger for a while the next morning despite the fact that Clint says he can barely remember them.

“Slept like shit,” he grumbles into her shirt, his usual code for bad dreams. “Tell me something good.”

Natasha continues to card her fingers through his hair, but her gaze slides off him, landing first on his hand on her waist, then on the corner of her coffee table, then on her book, before settling on the trees outside the window again. She thinks about tattoos and fake blood and sharp suits. She thinks about cinnamon pancakes and lemon sorbet and laughing until she can’t breathe. Something settles, like a blanket about her shoulders on a cold day.

“I love James,” she says, and knows that it’s true.

There’s a brief stillness, like everything around her is holding its breath, and then Clint pushes himself up to look at her with the brightest, most incandescent grin on his face. He looks like he’s _never_ been sad, not once. All traces have been swept off his face and Natasha had known he would be pleased but she never expected _this_.

“Yeah?”

She grins back. “Yeah.”

Clint scrambles into her lap and wraps her in the tightest octopus hug ever, laughing into her hair.

“Fuck. I’m so fucking glad.” He pulls back and kisses her hard. “ _So_ fucking glad,” he repeats and she wants to ask why, even though she knows it’s a stupid question, but she doesn’t even get as far as formulating it properly in her mind before Clint says, “James so deserves to be loved.”

Ah.

Her smile, if possible, gets even bigger.

“Oh Clint,” she says, running her hand back through his hair again. “You love James too.” He opens his mouth to protest, to clarify, to say _something_ , but Natasha barrels over him. “Maybe not romantically, but he knows you, yeah? You love him. Don’t…” She kisses him. “You’re not less, okay? You’re – you’re perfect.” She draws him in for an octopus hug of her own. “You’re perfect and I love you.”

A beat of silence.

“And you love James.”

“And I love James.”

Clint pulls back and looks her dead in the eye. And, because miracles do happen and today is demonstrably going to be _a good day_ , Clint says, for the second time in twelve hours, “And I love you.”

Natasha can’t stop grinning. “You giant sap,” she says, pulling him back towards her. “C’mere, you giant fucking idiot. Christ. You want coffee? I made coffee. Say yes to coffee and we can stop talking about feelings.”

Clint laughs. “I can get my own coffee. You stay here.” He kisses her as he rises and disappears into the kitchen.

James doesn’t make an appearance until close to midday, and he does it by shuffling into the room, hair every which way, and asking, “Do you have any bleach?”

“What?”

Clint is being uncharacteristically still today – though she imagines eventually he’ll start fidgeting and she’ll send him to make dinner – so she’s taking advantage and using him as a book prop, and it takes her a while to pull herself out of Toni Morrison’s _Beloved_ to deal with James’ frankly weird request.

“Bleach,” he repeats. “I threw up in your shower.”

She stares at him for a moment while Clint snorts rather dramatically into her t-shirt.

“Under the kitchen sink,” she says eventually, and then watches James’ toucan-covered backside shuffle away.

“Why do you love him again?” Clint asks with a smile. Natasha hits him. “No seriously, we provided a bucket and everything, and instead he threw up on his own feet.”

“Christ Clint, _shut up_.” She doesn’t want to think about it, but her shower is so small that’s literally the only way it could have happened and now she’s _thinking about it_. Thanks _Clint_. “Go make him tea or something.”

Clint smirks at her but capitulates with a, “Yes, ma’am,” and a salute.

Natasha turns back to her book, but is interrupted not moments later by James shuffling back into the room with a steaming mug in one hand and a hoodie thrown over his shoulders. Clint passes him, bleach in hand, pressing a gentle kiss to his forehead before making his way into Natasha's room. Clearly _someone_ took pity on James and offered to clean the shower for him. Clint is such a sucker.

James curls into her side on the couch, tucking his head against her shoulder.

“Feeling okay?” she asks, resigning herself to not getting any more reading done and putting her book away.

“Better now,” he replies. “Thanks for the Tylenol. And the water. And the tea.”

“No worries, kitten. Today is for lazing anyway.”

They’re quiet for a moment, and Natasha thrills at James’ lack of complaint about her little nickname for him. Then James tips his head up to look at her. He looks beautiful and soft and vulnerable. She kisses his forehead almost reflexively.

“You know what mine and Steve’s hangover cure is?” he says with a small smile.

“Hmm?”

“Studio Ghibli.”

“That,” Clint announces, bleach in hand on the way back to the kitchen, “is a fucking excellent idea. I vote _My Neighbour Totoro._ ”

“ _Howl’s Moving Castle_ ,” James counters. “I love that movie.”

“Because Howl’s a dramatic bitch, right?” Clint says, and then laughs when James flips him off.

“No,” James replies, not even managing to muster up much indignation. “It’s because Calcifer is the best and any other opinions are invalid.”

“Well,” Natasha says as she scrolls through options on Netflix, “unfortunately, _Howl’s Moving Castle_ isn’t on here so these are your options.”

They settle on _My Neighbour Totoro_ because they were never going to pick anything else, realistically, and the three of them pile onto the couch in a tangle of limbs that’s going to bring them a world of pins and needles in about two hours but right now is about the most comfortable Natasha's ever been. When it’s over Clint provides avocado toast and eggs and all manner of hangover foods and by the time they’re finished even James no longer looks as though he spent all of last night drinking his own bodyweight in alcohol.

They nap.

Natasha wakes later to find Clint has raided James’ bag, found his headphones, and is apparently listening to some very funny podcast or book, if the smothered laughs are anything to go by. He’s in the armchair, legs stretched long and feet propped on the coffee table, looking relaxed and still and happy, staring out of the window and occasionally giggling. James, on the other hand, is still in his customary place; lying on top of Natasha like the giant cat he pretends he isn’t, his eyes half lidded and unfocussed. He looks like he’s thinking hard, which is silly. Natasha's too relaxed and comfortable to be thinking _at all_. She picks up Toni Morrison instead.

After a while, she becomes aware that Clint is staring at her, running a coin over his knuckles in his trademarked show of getting fidgety. She raises an eyebrow at him, questioning, and he shrugs in response. It’s a thing he does; he knows he gets fidgety, but he also knows on days like this people tend not to want to indulge him in it. It’s one of those habits that makes Natasha pause for a moment, because Clint’s so good at projecting confidence that she can sometimes forget that he has insecurities like everyone else. And, she supposes, not bothering people while they look occupied may well be a habit that is _very_ deeply ingrained in him.

She signs _What?_ with one hand.

_Pizza?_ comes the reply.

Natasha looks over at her TV and the blue 17:49 glowing steadily back at her. She shakes her head. _Chinese_ , she signs back firmly, _in an hour?_ Clint nods, though he looks disappointed.

All the sign language that Natasha knows is to do with either food or sex. Anything else and she has to fingerspell. Recently she’s been contemplating learning ASL _properly_ , but she hasn’t quite got ‘round to it yet. Maybe she can learn with James. That could be fun. She files away the idea for further consideration and turns back to her book.

She’s dragged out of it again by Clint gently kicking James’ foot.

“Hey, quit it.”

“Quit what?” James asks distracted.

“Thinking.”

James grunts but doesn’t reply, so Clint kicks him again.

“Quit it,” James snaps back, a mirror to Clint’s earlier statement, and he moves to trap Clint’s foot between his own. Natasha thinks Clint’s going to push – and he looks like he’s planning to – but he must see something on James’ face because instead his expression softens.

“Hey,” Clint says instead. “What’s up?”

Natasha can’t see James’ face, only Clint’s, so she can’t tell what this might turn into. She places Toni Morrison on the back of the couch and waits.

“I just…” James trails off, shifts against her front, tries again. “Last night I – ”

He stops again, and Clint suddenly looks a lot more concerned. Natasha runs a hand over James’ shoulders in comfort and he gives her waist a little squeeze before sitting up, like this is a conversation he can’t be lying down to have.

“I’ve done some reading,” he says, picking at the couch cushions. He laughs, but it’s quiet. “I’ve done _a lot_ of reading and – ” he looks at Clint, who now looks nonplussed “ – I’m not… It’s just so I know, yeah? Where I stand, in, in relation to you and Natasha and… everything. And I’m not, like, _super_ into – ” he waves a hand “ – you know, but there’s some things that…” He trails off again, like he’s run out of steam.

Clint looks at her then, as if she’s able to clarify this for him, but all she can do is shake her head slowly in confusion. She has no idea what James is trying to get at either.

“What are you – ?” Clint starts, but he’s cut off by James, who says in a rush, “Sometimes you hold my hands down during sex and I really like it but you said you didn’t like restraints and I dunno what to… do?”

Surprise flits across Clint’s expression, under the confusion, and James winces.

“What?” Clint says eventually.

“You – Natasha took me to that club – ”

“Nine Realms,” Natasha cuts in inanely.

“ – Nine Realms,” James amends dutifully, “and there was a whole bunch of things that wasn’t really my thing, but there were some things that I really liked but you said…” James hesitates. “You said you didn’t do stuff like that. But then sometimes you do, and I want to try some of those things with you but I don’t know – ” James looks around helplessly. “You’re firm about not being into it, but then – ” He trails off again.

He’s curled up small now, one leg up on the couch and arms wrapped around the knee. He looks unsure but somehow also determined and, though Natasha still isn’t sure exactly what he’s getting at, she reaches out take his hand in comfort. Apparently, while she and Clint were drifting on the couch and reading, James has been thinking through something important. It’s not how she would spend the morning after the night before, but that’s not the point. She gives his hand a little squeeze in encouragement.

“I have this fantasy,” James says into the silence. And then, “Oh god,” he mutters, and wipes a hand over his eyes. “I have this fantasy,” he says again, louder. Firmer. “We’re in – we’re in beautiful clothes, you’re in a _suit_ , and I want you both and you – ” Natasha doesn’t know who that ‘you’ is supposed to be, but she thinks it’s both of them “ – you strip me and, ” he locks eyes with Clint, “I’m just there, at your feet, and you tell me to get you off and I do, and then you tie me to the bed and…” There’s a soft clicking noise as his mouth works for a moment, no sound coming out.

“You get me off,” he says eventually, voice wrecked, eyes back on his feet, “again and again – or, or not. Maybe I’m not allowed, and you just tease, I don’t mind – but I’m a mess, in the end. But how do I…?”

Natasha is holding her breath, like even that sound might dispel whatever James is saying, his words creating these paper thin images that flutter around her head like nervous starlings, hardly settling before taking flight again. Clint looks poleaxed and she doesn’t know what to do. What should she _do_?

“Everything I’ve read says it’s about trust,” James says eventually. “And I trust you both so much, but I also know there are… lines, and I don’t want to accidentally cross them. But then how do we – talk about this? I just…”

He trails off again and Natasha can see Clint’s eyes are huge, because it sounded like ‘trust’ wasn’t exactly what James meant just then. It makes her want to grin, but this feels like the wrong time.

“Clint,” James says after a long stretch of silence. “Please say something.”

“Like what? I don’t…” He trails off. “You could have just asked, James.” He doesn’t sound angry; it’s just a statement of fact. “Have I ever – have I ever made you feel like you can’t just _ask_?”

_Now_ he sounds hurt.

“No, but – ” James starts and then stops, frowning, when he can’t think of a rebuttal.

And suddenly, like a ton of bricks, realisation crashes over Natasha, washing away any levity.

“Shit,” she blurts out, almost reflexively. “Fuck. It was me. This was…”

This is her fault. James thinking this – that he can’t ask, that this is some kind of big unspoken _thing_ – it’s her fault. All nudge-nudge wink-wink Clint hasn’t really talked about this but he’s more okay with it than he seems, I just don’t bring it up. Instead of making it sound like she doesn’t _need_ to bring it up with Clint, she’s made James think that she _couldn’t_ ; that she’d tried but hadn’t gotten anywhere, which isn’t it at all. It just doesn’t bother her. Natasha doesn’t want to get tied to Clint’s bed, or any bed really, so the fact that he’s probably more okay with the idea than he thinks doesn’t matter to her; he can work that out in his own sweet time. In fact, most of the things Clint doesn’t really think about doing are things she doesn’t want to do anyway or, if she does, she does them with Sif. So they’ve never needed to talk about it.

But James _does_ want some of these things, and he wants them with her and Clint. And inadvertently Natasha has made it sound like it isn’t something they could talk about, made it sound like it isn’t something _James_ could approach _Clint_ about. What’s more, because of the way BDSM specifically had first been broached between them – namely, when Clint was a little overwhelmed with the speed at which things were moving, and where he’d had to disclose childhood trauma way earlier than he would normally have done – James probably _only_ associates that topic with a negative reaction.

All on her own, she’d made it The Thing We Don’t Talk About. _Idiot_.

“What?” Clint asks, and he must feel as though he’s stuck in a loop, forever asking _what_.

Natasha rubs her hands over her face and lets out a breath, sitting up straighter because James is right about one thing; this is not a conversation to be had lounging on couch cushions.

“I’m sorry. I think I… misled you, James.”

James looks at her out of the corner of his eye, thumbnail caught between his teeth, his shoulders rock hard tense.

She takes another deep breath. “I’ve never talked to Clint about this because it’s never bothered me, not because he’s shut me out. I didn’t – I realise I may have made it sound otherwise, but that wasn’t… I didn’t mean to – ” She stops and grimaces. “I didn’t think how it might… come across.”

Natasha watches James shoulders slowly lower and he takes in a deep breath, his eyes slipping shut. He looks like a huge weight has been taken off his shoulders, but there are tears caught in his eyelashes and Natasha feels _terrible_. She knows he still struggles with anxiety and PTSD and a whole host of other things. He just wears it so lightly that she… forgets. Sometimes.

Shit. She’s the worst.

“Jesus _Christ_ , Natasha,” he says eventually, dropping his knee and knuckling his eyes, and finally, _finally_ , Natasha's muscles unlock, and she sweeps him into a hug, her nose pressed tight against his temple.

“ _I’ve been so nervous_ ,” he whispers into her shoulder in Russian, “ _trying to think of the best way to bring it up_.”

“I’m sorry,” she replies, kissing any part of his face she can reach. “I’m so sorry, kitten.”

She holds him for a long moment, hoping to convey the sincerity of her apology with her body. She’s so wrapped up in that guilt that she almost forgets Clint’s there at all, until Clint takes his feet of the coffee table with a loud _thunk_ , sits up straight in the armchair, and fixes them both with a frank stare.

“I have,” he says, voice firm, “no fucking clue what just happened.”

James laughs, and it sounds a little creaky but only a little.

“I managed to tie myself up in knots over nothing,” he says in his customary self-deprecating manner.

“Wait, no,” Natasha cuts in, because it’s really not his fault. “I didn’t think. I made it sound like – ”

“Darlin’.” It’s James’ turn to cut her off apparently. “Out of the two of us you’re not the one that managed to forget Clint Barton has no problem talking about sex, _ever_.”

“I _misled_ – ”

“You did _not_ – ”

“But – ”

“ _Okay_ ,” Clint cuts in, effectively shutting them both up, “this isn’t a competition to find out who can shoulder the most blame. From the top.”

“I want to talk to you about sex,” James says before Natasha can even formulate jumping in, “specifically being held and/or tied down.”

“Cool.” Clint points finger guns at him like a dork. “We can do that. Clarification: you’re the one being held or tied down?”

“Yes.”

“Okay.” Clint nods. “I have a condition on that.”

James raises a questioning eyebrow, and Natasha can see the tension leaking from his body.

“We only do it when Natasha's there too.”

Something soft and fond and slightly sad sweeps over James’ face, but it’s gone almost before Natasha can register it. “I wasn’t kidding when I said I trusted you,” he says.

“I know,” Clint smiles at that, a faint blush staining his cheekbones. “But what can I say? Childhood trauma is a bitch. Ruined this, ruined spaghetti hoops, ruined a lot of things. So; only when someone else is there.”

James hesitates, and then nods.

“Spaghetti hoops?” he asks tentatively after a moment, and Natasha looks over at that because she’s never heard that one either. Not that she has any reason to; they’re not five, they don’t eat spaghetti hoops.

Clint waves his hand, like he can dismiss his earlier statement. It’s a casual gesture but Natasha can tell he regrets mentioning it. “It’s not a fun story, but upshot is I hate spaghetti hoops.”

“…Right.”

James sounds curious but, though he clearly wants to ask more, he wisely refrains from doing so.

There’s a long silence, where everyone looks at everyone else but no one knows what to say.

“Well,” Clint says eventually, “this is super awkward. So I’m going to go get Chinese and you two can hash this out or whatever. Be less awkward by the time I’m back.”

And with that he gets up, shoves his sneakers on, grabs his wallet and his coat, and leaves.

“Did he… did he just leave in sweats and a coat? And nothing else?” James asks.

“It appears so,” Natasha replies after a long silence. _Technically_ it’s been an hour, she guesses, but nonetheless, that was pretty abrupt.

James fixes her with a look. “Why are we dating him again?”

“We’d be bored otherwise.”

“Ah.” A small smile graces James’ face. “That scans, I guess.”

The smile slides off his face again and another of those awkward silences stretches out between them, longer this time without Clint to break it up with frank irreverence. Eventually though, Natasha can’t deal with any more.

“Look, James, I’m sorry – ”

“Don’t,” James interrupts. “We’ve done this.”

“But I – ”

“Natasha.” James’ tone is so firm and serious is stops her in her tracks. “You didn’t deliberately mislead me. You have nothing to apologise for. It was my brain that took all that shit and ran.”

“Maybe,” Natasha says after a pause. “But I _did_ mislead you, intentionally or not, and I’m sorry for it. I don’t – I never want to be the cause of any worry or anxiety for you, and I never ever want to make you feel like you can’t talk to either me or Clint about something.”

James blows out a huge breath through his nose, looking annoyed but like he can’t think of a good counter argument. “Fine, whatever. Apology accepted.”

He sounds so grumpy about it Natasha has to fight to hide her smile.

“Oh, quit looking at me like that,” James grouses.

“Can’t,” Natasha shoots back. “You’re being too cute.”

“I’m not _cute_ ,” James protests with no heat. “I’m five foot nine inches of hot ass, Clint says so.”

Natasha shrugs. “Clint’s an idiot.” She pulls herself up onto the couch, pushing at James until he consents to lie down, before draping herself over him. Let James be the mattress this time. “And I outrank him anyway.”

“Oh yeah?” James shifts until he’s comfortable before wrapping his arms around her. “How so?”

“By being right.”

James snorts. “So I’m not a hot ass?”

“Not right now,” Natasha says, head resting on his chest. “Right now you’re in an oversized NYU hoodie and toucan boxers. Right now you’re _cute_.”

James hums in answer and begins running his fingers through her hair. Natasha practically melts, it feels so good. He’s just – he’s just so good. And she loves him so much. Which, she suddenly realises, she hasn’t actually told him yet.

Time to fix that.

“Hey James.” She props herself up with her chin on his sternum.

“Hmm?” he says vaguely, eyes half closed and unfocussed.

“I love you.”

James’ stiffens and his hand stills, eyes shooting wide. He stares down at her.

“What?”

“I love you, James Buchanan Barnes.”

She smiles up at him, taking in the unflattering angle that allows her to see up his nose, his messy hair, and shocked expression. His eyes are locked with hers, wide and astonished and getting progressively brighter until she realises with a start that those are _tears_ , that James is overwhelmed and maybe only a breath or two away from actually crying.

She only gets as far as a worried, “Hey – ” before James wraps his arms around her _tight_ , rolling her over and into the couch cushions and burying his face in her neck, breath unsteady and limbs entwined.

“Jesus Natasha,” he says, voice low and choked and full of emotion. “Fucking warn a guy.”

He clings to her and Natasha rubs soothing circles on his back and hugs back, revelling in his closeness and the weight of his body against hers, and they don’t move for a long while.

It’s nice.

But eventually James pulls back. He looks a little dishevelled, a little red around the eyes, but he smiles at her, wide and happy, and Natasha can’t help but smile back. Gently, she brushes her fingers under his eye before pressing a soft kiss to his mouth.

James’ smile gets, if possible, even bigger.

“I love you too, Natalia Alianovna Romanova,” he says, hushed and intimate, before kissing her once again.

“Oh god,” she laughs. “Who told you my full name?”

James grins. “I saw it on your driver licence.” His smile slips a little, becomes smaller and somehow both fonder and sadder at the same time. “I love Clint too,” he says, avoiding her gaze for a moment before forcing himself to meet her eyes. “Don’t tell him though.”

Another gentle smile, another kiss to his lips. “I won’t,” she promises. It’ll probably hurt James to sit on that knowledge, but it will hurt him more to see the mix of guilt and confusion that’s likely to swim over Clint’s features if he hears it before he’s ready; even if James is expecting it, even if he knows why it’s there. But he’s got her, and she’ll help in whatever way he’ll allow.

She stares at James then, taking in his slightly red eyes and the slight hunch to his shoulders. His gentle hands and borrowed hoodie. The curls of his tattoo ink, just visible where the neck of the hoodie pulls wide, and the hook of his thigh over her own. So often she’s marvelled that she and Clint found someone so well suited to the both of them. But really, what’s amazing is that she – Natasha Romanov – managed to find _two people_ who have slotted so well along her exposed sides, who’ve softened her jagged edges and amplified her at her best.

She’s _so lucky_ , and sometimes she can’t even hold that idea in her head. She’d been so desperately unhappy at high school and at college she’d always felt like she was playing catch up – to ‘normal college experiences’, to Yelena who seemed so mature and knowledgeable, to exploring her sexuality. To a whole host of things, really – and if she could go back in time to tell her younger self, at literally any point between twelve and twenty-one, that she’d end up _here_ , in an unconventional open relationship with two men, her younger self would probably call her mad. A steady, mutually supportive relationship might well have been the dark side of the moon to younger Natasha – hell, it had been a pretty alien concept to Adult Natasha too, thanks to Matt – but here she is anyway.

God, she’s _so lucky_.

“Why are you creepy-grinning at me?” James demands, squinting at her.

Natasha tries to smack him on the arm, but James squirms away laughing.

“I’m happy, you ass!” she cries, giving him a shove. He topples off the couch with a yelp. “See if I’m ever nice to you again. ‘Creepy-grinning’. What _disrespect_.” She pokes him, once per syllable, as he lies on the carpet and laughs. She’s fully intending to continue her faux-tirade, but just as she’s grabbing a couch cushion she hears the door open and the heavenly smell of Wai Hong’s prawn dumplings wafts into the room.

She smacks James in the face with the cushion anyway. She wouldn’t want him to think he was less important than food now, would she? She’s a nice girlfriend like that.

James squawks – honest to god squawks – and tries to grab the cushion from her.

“Are you killing James for any particular reason,” Clint asks, toeing off his shoes before dumping the food on the coffee table, “or is this just a general homicidal feeling that needs to be expressed?”

“I have been nothing but a kind and dutiful boyfriend!” James says, slightly out of breath from attempting to wrestle the cushion from her. Natasha digs her toes into his side and he yelps again, but doesn’t let go.

“Lies,” she replies, panting. She tugs on the cushion, but James wraps both his arms and legs around it and she can’t get it free. “Lies and slander.”

“General homicidal feelings then.” Clint nods, like that’s what he expected. He drops himself down into the space James has vacated. “Prawn dumpling?”

James doesn’t let go of the cushion. Instead he makes an enthusiastic sound and opens his mouth and, because Clint is _an absolute sucker_ , he just bends down and pops a prawn dumpling directly into James’ mouth.

Natasha is almost completely convinced they are not aware of how _sickeningly cute_ they can sometimes be.

“Prawn dumpling?” Clint asks again, holding one out to her too. Natasha, however, has too much dignity to allow Clint to hand feed her, so she reluctantly lets go of the couch cushion James has koalaed onto in favour of taking a prawn dumpling. Really, it’s a little too hot for her to hold with just her fingers, but it’s entirely too delicious for her to care.

She moans, only half in jest. God, Wai Hong’s prawn dumplings are the fucking best.

“You worked everything out then?” Clint asks, sitting back and tucking into his extra hot noodles. He’s still not put a shirt on. It’s a nice view.

Natasha hums around a mouthful of dumplings while James sits up, not bothering to get up off the carpet and instead grabbing the lemon chicken and leaning against Clint’s leg to eat.

“It was nothing,” he says. “We’re good.”

“Yeah?” Clint slides a hand into James’ hair and tugs until James tilts his head back, like he can assess James’ sincerity through eye contact alone.

James grins. “Yeah.” His smile turns sly. “She loves me.”

Clint grins back. “I know.”

The laugh James lets loose is beautiful. “Of course she told you before she told me.” He shoots her a fond look, but there’s understanding in it too and Natasha gets that feeling again – the twisty one, the one she gets when she looks at that photo – and something settles in her chest. Something heavy and immovable, and she thinks, yes, this is it. This is going to work out. This is going to _work out_.

It’s a wonderful feeling – something like belonging and something like home – and Natasha shifts until she can lean against Clint’s side, just to feel the solidity of him, to reassure herself of his presence. God, she wants to live in this moment, this feeling, forever.

This is what being happy feels like.


End file.
